Beneath the infinite dome of the cosmic stretch, where shadows weave aqueous tapestries, lies the Silent Ocean—an expanse unfettered by the roar of the tempest. The surface mirrors celestial dreams, each wave a glass shard reflecting stardust dreams held just out of reach.
Here in this meadow of dreams, silence flows like liquid symphony. Time is but an errant bubble, sliding across the water's surface, whispering secrets only to fade—a laugh forever unheard. Sailors of the mind drift on currents of thought, each wake folding back on itself, a lineage of eddies inked against the void.
Music babbles softly at the edge of perception, a cosmic orchestration of harmonies untouched by the chords of man. It resonates from starborne vessels traversing tides of curvature unknown, echoes of laughter against the amber arch of memory.
Foolish mirrors reflect colors never seen by human eye, casting illusions goûtées far and wide; a waltz through realms unseen (Dance Among Shadows) or perhaps the dreaming asphalt of cracked epiphany (Carved Doors, Open Mirrors).
Gazing into this ocean, one recognizes the quiet chaos of it all; galaxies sleep, and nebula hums—yet through the cacophony of silent, unfurling dreams lies the truth.